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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25632274">Mended Bones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky'>DarkHeartInTheSky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awesome Rowena MacLeod, Fic Facer$ Charity Auction 2020 (Supernatural), Hellhounds, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Winchesters (Supernatural), Sick Castiel (Supernatural)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:27:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25632274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel gets bitten by a hellhound, the Winchesters have to call in the reinforcements before it's too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FicFacer$ 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mended Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Lots of the love to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectatess/pseuds/Hectatess">Hectatess</a> for being a fantastic beta, the Fic Facer$ mods, and all the participants. Y'all rock!</p>
<p>I hope you enjoy the story! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean hates hellhounds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So many years later, he still can’t forget how it felt when their fangs were in his soul, venom in his blood. They smell worse than anything else he’s ever experienced, even the bloated corpses that stack up in the morgues he’s visited across the country.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And now, they’re surrounded by five of them. He stands back to back with Sam and Cas. The monsters snuck up on them — otherwise, Dean would’ve prepared with their holy-fire glasses. Dean and Sam can only tell where they are by the breath curling from their nostrils.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas,” Dean says, afraid to speak above a whisper, “what do we do?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Our best.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean makes a mental note to punch him once this is all over. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sam,” Cas says, “three o clock.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam waits a moment, then strikes. Chaos erupts. The other four hounds are on them, snarling and snapping. Dean feels one grab onto his jacket, and he swings backwards, angel blade sinking into its face. It whimpers, blood dripping onto the ground, and a claw slashes at his ankle. Cas buries his blade into the beast’s side, and the snarling stops. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean barely mutters out a “thanks” before Cas is yanked to the ground and pulled behind the brush, so quickly, Cas doesn’t even make a sound. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas!” Dean starts after him, but the other hellhound slams into his side, knocking him to the ground. Its drool drops onto Dean’s face. Dean lost his grip on his angel blade in the fall, and his hand flails wildly searching for it. The breath worms down Dean’s throat just as his fingers touch the cool silver. A tongue scraps against his cheek, and Dean slams the blade up its chin. It falls on top of Dean, a full ninety pound that somehow feels much heavier. Dean has to shove it off him. He turns his head to see Sam pulling his blade out of another body, wiping the remnants on his jeans.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>From behind the bushes, there’s another loud whimper, then silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart hammers in his chest. Sam comes over to him and helps him to his feet. Dean’s knees buckle, and he steadies himself against a tree. “Cas?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m okay.” It’s weak, hoarse, but there, voice easily recognizable. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The heavy tension sinks out of his muscles. A few yards ahead, there’s the sound of crunching leaves and twigs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam follows the noise, and a moment later, he returns with one arm wrapped around Cas, bracing him up. Even in the nighttime, Dean can see the dark stain on his pant leg, and the sheen of sweat coating Cas’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How bad?” Dean asks Sam.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not that bad,” Cas interrupts, pulling up his pant leg. On his calf, there’s a fist-sized chunk of missing flesh, jagged at the ends where teeth ripped skin and muscle. Dean has to turn his face and swallow down the bile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” he snaps. “You clearly have a different definition of “not bad” than we do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can you heal that, Cas?” Sam asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” Cas sounds impatient. “It’s just a bite, it’ll be gone by morning. It’s not very deep.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean disagrees. It’s clearly deep enough to hit muscle. On a person, a wound like that would require surgery, at least a few days in the hospital to watch for infection, and then weeks of physical therapy afterwards, with years of persistent pain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s steady enough to leave the tree and walk over to Cas’s other side. The wound already smells infected. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sam, get the med kit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean, it’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t get a say in this,” Dean snaps. “We’ll slap some Neosporin, bandage it up, and hope to god you don’t go septic.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not going to happen.” Cas’s speech is slightly slurred. Dean and Sam share a look. Cas sways on his feet. Dean tightens his grip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you sure you’re okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas makes a shushing sound, and even presses a finger to Dean’s lips. He smiles softly. “Dean, I am going to vomit, then pass out.” His eyes roll backwards slightly. “Hopefully in that order.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas bends over, bile splattering over Dean’s shoes. Dean grimaces, fights against his own nausea. Sam’s grip stops Cas from face-planting to the ground, but he’s out cold. They have to drag him back to the car between them. Sam gets him in the backseat and wraps the wound, while Dean tries to clean his shoes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, driving barefoot’s not near the most dangerous thing I’ve done,” he comments, tossing his shoes in a plastic bag, then into the trunk. He looks over at Cas through the window before sliding into the driver’s seat. His pants are hitched up, revealing the white bandage slowly turning dark red.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Sam whispers, looking back too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t say anything. He watches for a moment, then speeds home. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time they get home, Cas is semi-conscious enough to put one foot in front of the other, enough they don’t have to carry him, but he still leans most of his weight into their tired grips. His energy wanes quickly, and by the time they do get him to bed, he’s out again, mumbling something in a language Dean doesn’t understand. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and pants against the nearby wall for a minute, arms sore, muscles tired. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bandage around Cas’s calf is bloody and ruined. Dean and Sam work to replace it, and Dean nearly gags at the smell. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that look worse to you?” he asks Sam.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam’s nose crinkles. “It can’t be,” he says, unsure. “It’s only been a few hours. He said he could heal it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean raises a cautious eyebrow. “Do we believe that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shrugs, and rubs at his mouth. He’s green around the gills too, inhaling through his mouth instead of his nose. “Let’s just wrap it again and see how it is in the morning. We have a better stock of supplies here than in the Impala anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean rubs at the wound with isopropyl alcohol, gently dabbing at first, but Cas doesn’t even flinch at the contact. In the “gross stuff” drawer, Sam finds an herbal salve, dark brown and thick like peanut butter. The notes attached it to claim it was developed by Florence Nightingale (“a very prominent American witch,” Rowena told them once. “Such a shame she used her talents to ‘help the poor and sick’ instead of just getting rid of those who </span>
  <em>
    <span>made</span>
  </em>
  <span> others poor and sick.” Sam applies a generous amount onto Cas’s calf, and re-wraps the ankle in cotton gauze. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas still doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls, and Dean’s reminded of the time Cas jumped forward thirty years in time to find them, and how it sapped so much energy, he collapsed onto the bed and didn’t move for almost two days. But he did wake up, good as new, with the only sign that he’d ever been like that all the wrinkled clothing that hung loosely off his frame. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess we just let him sleep,” Sam says after the silence lingers too long. “See how it is in the morning, go from there. There’s nothing else we can do right now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean agrees, though reluctantly. Sam pats him on the back, right on a forming bruise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Sam says when Dean winces. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” His voice is thick with worry and fatigue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s get some sleep. He’s not going anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean agrees again, but he still lingers in Cas’s room for a few more minutes before he turns and goes to bed. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not unusual for Sam to wake before him. Most mornings, Sam’s already had his morning run and coffee by the time Dean drags his feet to the kitchen to the Keruig. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This morning, though, Sam is not in the kitchen. Dean finds him in Cas’s room, leaning over Cas.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean waits in the doorframe, throat tight. He can smell the wound from here, and it makes his stomach twist. He can also see that Cas is covered in a thick layer of sweat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s burning up,” Sam says without looking at Dean. “Get the thermometer.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean goes to the infirmary and back in less than a minute, tool in hand. It’s a newer electric thermometer, the kind used at hospitals by overworked nurses too sleep deprived to hold a steady hand. Dean passes it over to Sam and gets a good look at Cas: sweaty, pale, teeth chattering. There are goosebumps on Cas’s flesh, but he does not shiver. Dean’s frown deepens. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam runs the rubber end over Cas’s forehead. Dean leans forward uncomfortably to look. It beeps in a high-pitched tone. ERROR.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean and Sam frown. Sam runs it again. Same noise. ERROR. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are the batteries busted?” Dean asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t it not turn on if that was the issue?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean shrugs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam leaves, and Dean steps closer to Cas’s head. He puts the back of his hand against Cas’s hairline and winces. He can feel the heat seeping off Cas’s skin, like he’s standing in front of an open oven. He glances at the bandage, now black and glued to Cas’s skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s try this,” Sam says when he returns, holding an old-style mercury thermometer. “Good thing we kept all these when we organized this place.” Presumably it’s from the original chapter that was stationed here back in the 50s. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam slips the end past Cas’s lips and they wait. The red liquid quickly goes up the tubing, and up, and up. Dean squints to read the black markings, and it makes the knots in his stomach together for each tick it passes. 104, 105, 109, 111. It keeps going. Besides him, Sam holds his breath, and the mercury keeps moving, like it’s trapped in a race for its life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, just beneath the rounded end, it stops, and stays. Sam and Dean wait an extra few moments to be sure, and slowly, Sam takes the thermometer from Cas’s lips and turns it so he and Dean can read.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>122.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All the moisture leaves Dean’s mouth. His tongue sticks to the bottom of his jaw. At a fever of 106 degrees, organ failure begins. The brain begins to cook inside the skull. Permanent damage is done. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get all the ice you can,” Sam says, his leader voice pulling forward. “I’ll start the tub.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With something to do, Dean runs, not to the kitchen, but the storage room. He thanks their past selves for installing this industrial freezer last summer, and carries as many ten pound bags of ice as he can fit in his arms. He sprints to the bathroom, nearly slamming into the wall, but he makes it there in minutes. The tap is running, on its lowest temperature, and Dean gets to work. He rips the bags open with his teeth and dumps the ice in. Some of it splashes back onto his face, and he hisses at the icy pain, but pushes through until all the ice cubes are floating in the tub, clinking together like a giant slushie. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam pulls Cas in by the armpits. He and Dean strip Cas down to his underwear, and the danger is so immediate, Dean doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t feel any embarrassment. Cas’s skin burns theirs, but they continue until he’s in the tub, eyelids fluttering, but otherwise showing no sign of consciousness. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t normal, right?” Dean asks, watching so Cas’s head doesn’t sink under the water. He knots his fingers through his hair. “What do we do? Call 911?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And tell them what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know— a dog bit him? It’s not exactly a lie.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, but humans don’t get fevers this high. They die hours before it even gets close to what he’s got. And what if this is part of the healing? What if he magically starts getting better? We can’t explain that away, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No, they couldn’t. Dean chews on his lip. Hospitals were always the absolute last resort— that was their dad’s rule. They always tried to fix things themselves first; most of the time, that meant home-job sutures with whiskey and dental floss, slamming a shoulder against a wall to get it back into place, using old sports bras to hold together cracked or broken ribs. The injuries they collected on hunts were the kind that would force a doctor to call the police, more people they needed to stay away from. And as a child, Dad’s warnings always echoed inside Dean’s skull. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’ll take you and Sammy away</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a fear that’s never left Dean to this day. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says, swallowing. “No hospital. Last resort. What do we do then?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Sam says, slowly, “if the hospital is our last resort. . . I guess we go to our second last resort.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean almost barks out a harsh no, but he stops the word halfway through his throat. The ice melts around Cas in the tub, and his skin is bright red. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go call her.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena doesn’t make it until that afternoon. By that time, they’ve refilled the tub with ice twice, and eventually take Cas out when his skin starts to prune. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas?” Dean says, slapping his face. “Can you hear us?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Be quiet,” Cas mutters, turning towards the pillow, mustering up enough energy to sound irritated. Dean never imagined he’d be so glad to hear that familiar layer of annoyance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, good, you’re awake. What’s happening? You said you could heal this.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas waves a weak, dismissive hand. “It will.” His voice goes quieter. “Just needs some time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How much time?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas doesn’t answer, back asleep, fingers twitching and sweat pooling underneath him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the front room, Sam and Rowena talk. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks for getting here so fast,” Sam is saying. Rowena’s heels click against the concrete. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course! I’d do anything for the angel, you know. I’ve grown fond of him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, so what do you want?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean has to hand it to her — she does the doe-eyed look better than Sam, blinking like the confused kid in class. “Whatever do you mean, Dean?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean snaps his fingers. “We all know you don’t do anything for free. It’s actually the only thing you and Crowley were ever good for it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She gasps and puts a hand over her heart. “Dean Winchester, you offend me! Can’t I do something out of the goodness of my heart?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean and Sam stare at her. She huffs and puts her chin up high, dropping her oversized bag onto the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re friends, aren’t we?” she pleads. They stare longer. “Friendly, at least. We no longer try to kill each other on sight. That’s progress.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it?” Dean says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She grins, her red lipstick stark against her white teeth. “Most of my old acquaintances would rather see me strung to the stake than call for help, so yes, dearier, it’s quite good progress. And since we’re so friendly, I just figured. . . “ She shrugs in faux innocence. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Think of it as an IOU.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean locks eyes with Sam. All things considered, it’s a good deal. Better than letting her free in the store room, or having her pick of any spell book in the library. Dean can pay back a favor. Sam must be thinking the same thing. Sam nods.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Dean says. “But no funny business.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She scoffs and puts her hair up in a ponytail. “Don’t worry. I know better than to get between you and your angel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before Dean can ask what the hell that means, she pushes past him, towards Cas. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So, Feathers got bit by a hellhound, eh?” She prods her fingers against the bandage, and examines the nearby festered skin. “Never a dull day with your boys, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just tell us what’s wrong,” Dean snaps. “You can light a smoke off his skin.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She hums in agreement. Sam clears his throat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rowena, he told us he could heal it, but it’s gotten way worse since last night. We’ve been able to keep the fever from rising, but haven’t put a dent in it otherwise. It’s way too high.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena unwraps the bandage. Dean almost pukes right there at the assaulting smell. The skin is puckered and black and oozing a thicky, dark liquid. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s like a tapeworm,” Rowena says calmly, examining the fluid between her fingertips. “Mixing angel grace and hellhound venom. They both eat each other up like starving dogs. The grace can burn the venom up and out, but sometimes,” she pokes her thumb on to the open sore. Cas doesn’t flinch. “Sometimes, the venom stitches into the grace and doesn’t let go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. And?” Dean gestures </span>
  <em>
    <span>go on, </span>
  </em>
  <span>with his hand. “What do we do then? Cut his foot off?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean,” Sam chides, but Rowena shrugs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s one solution, I suppose. It is an interesting thought: Do you think he could grow that foot back?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not cutting any limbs off,” Sam snaps, stepping forward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Samuel, you know you’re curious now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rowena.” Sam’s voice is flat, teething on rage, his final warning. “What can we do to help him?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There is one thing we can try, but he’s not going to be very happy about it. He’ll be very cross with the three of us, I imagine.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will he die?” Dean asks. “If we don’t do it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If the venom doesn’t kill, the fever definitely will.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena’s eyes are on him, and they won’t leave. There’s no pressure, no persuasion, just a little impatience, and a sense that she already knows the answer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean glances at Cas’s face. His eyes flutter behind his lids rapidly, fingers twitching just slightly. He sighs, turns back to Rowena. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do we have to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hellhound venom is a product of, well, Hell,” she says, fiddling with the supplies in front of her, half a dozen bottles that clink when she picks them up with her manicured nails. “And Hell isn’t as loose a cannon as she wishes. They’re are rules to follow, scales to be balanced.” She mixes some of the bottles together into the crucible, smashing them with the mortar. “Opposites do attract, after all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean picks up one of the bottles, sick to his stomach. The markings are smudged, but he recognizes the smell of holy oil, and the feel of the thick liquid on his fingertips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Holy fire kills angels,” Sam says suspiciously. He glares at Rowena.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only if it touches them.” Rowena takes the bottle from Dean’s hands and pours a generous amount onto a rag, until the fabric is soaked all the way through and dripping. “So, I guess you better make sure it doesn’t touch him.” She wraps the rag around a thick stick and cries, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ignis!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The fabric catches fire. The flames shoot up high, then settle, twirling and dancing gently. She passes it to Sam, who frowns as he takes it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Remember boys, I have to finish the spell, or else this is all for naught. We might have to start again, and I doubt Castiel will put up with this ordeal a second time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena looks at Dean. Dean nods, throat thick. If this is what they have to do, so be it. They’ve done worse to each other in the hopes of saving each other. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Positions ready, boys.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean stands on one side of Cas’s bed, Sam the other. The bandage was undone once more, and the smell overpowers the rest of the room. Red claw-like marks crawl up Cas’s thigh, and the area around the bite mark is swollen, almost the size of Dean’s fist, still leaking that suspicious ooze. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean pulls from his well of inner strength, and then leans across the bed, pinning Cas down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, go,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena starts chanting. Sam moves the fire just above Cas’s skin; not touching, but close enough to feel the kiss of heat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas jacknifes upwards, towards Dean’s chest. It starts as a low, guttural sound low in his throat, but it quickly intensifies into a near-scream. The veins in Cas’s face pop out of his skin, a sickly green. Rowena’s chanting gets faster, her tongue twisting and turning over the consonants in fluid, practiced perfection, and the vowels slips off her teeth like poetry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas flails, limbs trying to pull towards his torso. Dean snakes one hand downwards to keep the injured leg still and straight. Cas’s leg trembles, skin sweaty, but cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A thick, black substance begins to pool out of the bite wound, a strange mix between liquid and solid. It goes upwards to the fire, and breaks into small bits, sticking to the fiber, but most of the infection still stands as one long, thick piece. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas bucks like a wild animal, but it’s a testament to how ill he is that Dean can actually hold him down, albeit with significant strength. His mind flashes to a time when he would break his own fingers against Cas’s skin, a time when Cas could fall out a ten story window and walk away with only his hair disheveled. Dean has to push all his weight onto Cas’s chest, and it’s becoming harder to hear Rowena’s chanting over Cas screaming in his ear. Dean’s ears ring, and a high, tinny sound fills his mouth where an old-filling rattles like a miraca. The self-control that Cas rigorously maintains is slipping, and his true voice is slipping past vocal chords and teeth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena’s speech gets faster, more emotional, and the holy fire burns brighter, the flame fattening. The sludge keeps crawling upwards, but it’s so slow, Dean feels like time has frozen, like he’s back in Hell, and he could make a single cut last forever. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it,” Cas manages to stutter, a sob barely contained in the back of his mouth. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” An elbow slams into Dean’s sternum, and he coughs, winces, lungs shuddering, knowing that a bruise will blossom by the end of the hour. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay still,” Dean says, pushing down on Cas harder to keep his limbs still. “We’re almost done.” He doesn’t know if this is true or not, but he justifies it like a parent taking their child for a shot— </span>
  <em>
    <span>it won’t hurt at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and then trying to assuage the lie later with promises of ice cream. “This is to help you!” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The lights flicker. The lightbulb in the lamp shatters, pieces of glass flying in every direction, some dusting Dean’s hair, others finding their landing in the bedsheets, crunching as Cas jerks over them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam has to pull the flame back as it grows larger and meaner. Dean cranes his neck to watch the way the flame dances, and how the colors change, bits of pink and periwinkle flashing underneath the harsh oranges and hellish-red. It eats the bits of venom stuck to the fabric like a starving man. It smells like burned hair. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas’s energy starts to wane. His struggles become less frantic, and there’s resignation in his muscles, like a drowning man accepting their fate, realizing there is no other choice than to let the water rise above their head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena’s speaking so fast now, Dean can’t decipher where one word ends and another begins. It all flows together into an incoherent mess, but she speaks confidently, gleefully, and the tower of sludge grows longer, wrapping around the torch to sizzle and smoke out. The ceiling lights continue to flicker, bouts of darkness lasting longer and longer, and Dean hopes Rowena doesn’t need to see for this spell to work. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He brushes the bits of glass out of Cas’s hair, even though Cas is turning and twisting his neck, veins bulging from his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena’s voice hits the high octaves, the ceiling light shatters, and they’re shrouded in darkness, the holy fire torch having gone out too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena stops chanting, her breaths ragged, but pierced with adrenaline. She’s quiet for a moment, and Dean’s eyes adjust.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas is shivering, and Dean exhales, the steel in his bones relaxing. Dean can already feel that Cas’s skin is cooler, and within about ten seconds, he’s drenched in sweat, teeth chattering. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That should do it,” Rowena says, fixing her hair. Sam pulls out his cell phone and switches the flashlight on, focused on the wound. The skin is stitching together, returning to its normal color, as the black ends vanish. In one quick motion, she swipes the torch from Sam’s other hand— the white cloth now stained in the thick, black jelly. She inspects it under the flashlight, grinning, and humming. “I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind,” she said in a tone that suggested it didn’t matter if Sam and Dean had any objections. “I’m sure this venom will be useful in any number of spells.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean glares at Rowena, but decides against fighting her. Rowena’s selfish, but not destructive, and he figures the worst she can do with such a foul ingredient is exact vengeance against her old coven. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Rowena,” he says instead, the worry from before slowly breaking off into sincerity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Sam adds, swallowing, “we owe you one.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She grins and rolls her eyes flirtatiously. “I’ll add it to your tab. But in the future, boys, perhaps it’s best to leave the hellhound wrangling to the professionals.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll keep you on speed dial,” Dean says. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over the next few hours, Sam and Dean sweep up the broken glass and inspect the ceiling while Cas sleeps, more peacefully than he was before. Every half-hour, Sam takes his temperature with the mercury thermometer, and it’s relieving to see in real time the progress made: 120, to 115, to 113, to 111. Four hours later, he hovers at 104, a high-fever for the flu or a cold, but miles away from what it was just this morning. 104 is survivable; 104 they can handle with ice chips and fans and fistfuls of Tylenol. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas becomes more lucid with time; first, his eyes just trace them lazily across the room as glass scrapes on the concrete, but later in the afternoon, he’s able to answer their questions, even if it does seem to take a lot of energy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you remember?” Dean asks, leaning on the edge of the bed. He chews his lips, recalling how just hours ago they essentially tortured him. Cas’s high-pitched, true-voiced </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop it, stop it</span>
  </em>
  <span> will ring between his ears for a long time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Cas just sighs and furrows his eyebrows, thinking. “The car,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That was yesterday,” Dean explains. He puts his hand to Cas’s forehead again, relieved that the skin feels cooler, no longer scalding Dean’s skin just from the contact. “In the future, don’t tell us you can heal something if you can’t actually heal it. Capiche?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas nods weakly, eyes half-open. “I thought I could. I used to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean blinks in surprise. “You’ve been bit before?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hell,” he mumbles, and Dean can tell the lucidity is tiding away to sleep. “Years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Dean has nothing to say. Nothing to add. It’s logical that one might get bitten by a hellhound in Hell. There’s no question as to when this would have happened— when Cas rescued Dean from the Pit. It was years ago — lifetimes ago, it seems; a past from another world, that happened to another Dean, another Castiel. Because they are not who they were in 2008. They are not who they were just last year. They’ve changed, like a pebble to a mountain, a valley to a river. That Castiel could’ve shrugged off a hellhound bite like an irritating mosquito bite, but that Castiel had not yet Fallen, had not yet been battered and beleaguered by war, by the farce of Heaven. That Castiel was only on the teetering edge of humanity; he had not yet taken the plunge. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean wonders often about the choices Cas made that year. He doesn’t know if Cas would’ve been better off sticking with the angels, never siding with the Winchester brothers. If Cas had just told him to shut up and piss off in the beautiful room, where would they be? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He has to shake those thoughts away. What-ifs only lead down a dangerous, winding road, and in the end, it doesn’t matter. Cas did choose to side with the Winchesters, and this is where that road led. Depowered, disowned. But Dean and Sam care, more than Heaven ever seemed to. Maybe they don’t have fancy angel-powers that can’t heal bones, cure cancer, with a barely-there touch, but they have spirit, drive— they don’t ever give up on one another, and Dean wonders, would the angels try and find a way to cure Cas like they did?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know. But he knows what the three of them did today, and that’s all that matters.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He checks Cas’s temperature again: 102, and exhales. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean walks towards the main room, below the front door, and manages to catch the end tail of the conversation between Rowena and Sam.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re really gonna carry that with you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Magic purse, Samuel, it does wonders. I could fit the Washington monument in this thing!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not cursed, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s hellhound venom. Venom, from a hound, born in Hell. Of course it’s cursed!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Seriously, what are you planning on doing with it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know yet, but I can’t wait to find out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They stop talking when Dean steps down into the foyer, heads turned towards him. Sam straightens up, eyes searching Dean. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s he doing?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just sleeping now, I think. Those sheets are gonna need the power-wash of the century to get all that sweat out, though.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>San huffs. “As long as he’s not on fire.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He is pretty hot,” Rowena says. Dean glares at her, and she grins mischievously, shrugging in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you going to do about it</span>
  </em>
  <span> manner. “Relax, dearie. I know when I’ve lost a fight before it’s even started.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell does that mean?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena clicks her tongue and looks at Sam. “Oh my, I didn’t realize your brother was that dense.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam nods in agreement. Dean huffs. “Sam! You’re supposed to be on my side!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, but she has a point. Dean, you’re the smartest dumb person I know.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll kick your ass — “</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rowena puts a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I’ll best be off,” she says, still grinning, like she’s got a secret behind her teeth. “Best keep that phone nearby— I might be cashing in that favor sooner than later, after all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, again,” Dean says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She kisses him on the cheek, then pats it. “I can’t in good conscience let an angel die, now can I?”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After Rowena leaves, a quietness blankets the bunker. Dean pitters around, trying to keep busy, but there’s only so many times he can wash the same dishes, and dust the bookshelves. Sam makes himself comfy in the library, already back on the search for cases, occasionally picking Dean’s brain, but it seems to be slow even in monsterdom. Nothing Sam finds sounds like their kind of thing, instead just the same random evil that’s always plagued humanity. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sun has set when Cas wanders into the library, footsteps heavy and clumsy. He sways slightly when he walks, injured leg dragging behind him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Woah there, cowboy.” Dean jumps up from the chair when he sees Cas, one part of him happy to see Cas up and conscious, the other part worried that he’s pushing too fast too soon. “Why are you up?” He steers Cas towards the chair, and Sam hovers nearby, there if needed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel better,” Cas says, and he does sound better, less sleep-drunk and more awake, though there is still that note of fatigue. Dark circles sit under his eyes, and the lines on his forehead are more pronounced, but he’s alive, awake, already so much better than just a few hours ago. “I’m sorry to have worried you two.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean turns and rolls his eyes at the ceiling, while Sam says, “We’re glad you’re better, Cas.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to have involved Rowena.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean faces Cas and shrugs. “Don’t worry about that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But with the venom, she can concoct any number of spells— “</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Worst case, she kills a few bitchy witches. More than likely, she’ll use it as part of her beauty routine. There are things to lose sleep over — Rowena’s not one of them. In fact, I think she actually likes us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She likes Cas, at least,” Sam adds, grinning. Cas cocks his head, and it’s wonderful to see him acting like himself. Cas has changed a lot over the years he’s known the Winchesters, but with that sight before him, Dean realizes Cas has remained the same at his core. He got bit in the first place because he was trying to protect Dean. All these years, Dean’s still got an angel looking out for him. For some reason.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean claps his hands together. “So, what do you two want for dinner? I’m thinking it’s a Netflix night. Though Cas should probably shower first.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas frowns, offended. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re covered in dry sweat, dude.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas glances down at his clothes, and his mouth turns downwards. “That is. . . not pleasant.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Think about how we feel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam bitch-faces Dean, then offers to help Cas towards the showers. Cas waves him off, insistent he can manage on his own, and he does seem to be walking better already. Still, Dean waits until he hears the water turn on before he begins working on dinner. Something simple, because they’re in dire need of a grocery run. Dean pokes at the leftover takeout and frozen dinners before begrudgingly digging into the vegetable drawer, finding a big bag of onions. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, French onion’s not vegetable stew,” he mumbles, as he starts the pot. Soon enough, dinner’s ready, already prepared into real soup bowls, and not the plastic party kind, with the cheesy bread melted on top. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not your damn waiter,” he calls to Sam, still sitting in the library, constantly refreshing Twitter and news outlets. “Come get your own damn dinner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam takes his bowl, barely muttering a “thanks, Dean,” in-between a scalding bite he manages to choke down. Dean does carry the extra bowl for Cas to the Dean Cave; Cas may want some, he may not. Worst case, Dean’s got an extra bowl.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas is in the Dean Cave, hair still damp, but back in his dress shirt and pants, minus the suit jacket and trench coat. Dean puts the bowls down onto the small dinner trays.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” he says, “you can wear street clothes every now and then.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“These are comfy.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you say so.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam takes the recliner, which leaves Dean on the loveseat with Cas, their knees brushing together. Somehow, Sam also gets his grubby hands on the remote.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No artsy films,” Dean whines. “I don’t want to think.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You could stand to be a bit more cultured.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re eating </span>
  <em>
    <span>French</span>
  </em>
  <span> onion soup. That’s pretty cultured to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That one manages to get both Sam and Cas to roll their eyes, which is a victory in Dean’s book. Thankfully, Sam chooses an old classic from their childhood — </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vacation</span>
  </em>
  <span> — and they watch in peace, belly laughing and thigh-slapping. Even Cas seems to chuckle a time or two, and he eats some of the soup before he complains about the “molecules.” Considering how bad of a morning this day began, it’s one of the best nights Dean’s had in years.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hours later, Cas helps Dean with the dishes, while Sam scurries off somewhere to avoid the chore. The silence isn’t awkward; they’ve always managed to focus on the job. But it starts to itch once the last dish is put on the drying rack, and there’s no running water to fill the air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas pulls his sleeves back down to his wrists. “Thank you,” he says, without looking at Dean, “for helping.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean frowns, confused. “Uh, you’re welcome?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Angels aren’t as inventive as humanity. Or witches, it seems. Had that injury occurred in the garrison, and if it couldn’t be healed with a touch . . .” Cas’s voice trails off and he looks into the garbage disposal. “</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s throat swells at the implication. He pats Cas’s shoulder. “Well, you’re with us now, for good. And we don’t give up on family.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s rewarded with a rare, toothy grin; the small, shy kind that Cas half-hides by lowering his jaw. It’s there for only a second, but Dean caught it, and it warms his chest. “I am very grateful to be a part of that,” Cas says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a lot Dean could say. There’s a lot he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> say. Years of words backed up in his throat, down into his stomach, where they’ve been simmering for all this time, aching for their chance at freedom. It’s always overshadowed, though, by the alarm in his brain, that’s always on red-alert, ever since his father died: </span>
  <em>
    <span>good things don’t last, you get the people you love killed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s stopped him all these years, and it still makes him hesitate now. It’s just he’s afraid of hurting Cas; he’s afraid of hurting what they have. Because what they have now is unlike anything any two people have ever had; special in its own right, and he doesn’t want to ruin that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cas is looking at him now, in that way he has, like he sees straight into Dean’s soul. It always makes Dean feel naked, but comforted, and he can’t stand the dichotomy. But Dean knows there’s no judgement, no wrong decision. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His heart pounds against his ribs, his head spins. Hours ago, they thought Cas was dying, and now he’s standing upright, doing the dishes with Dean.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He still hears Rowena’s words in his head, but he knows he’s not ready to take that step. Not yet. One day — hopefully one day soon — but right now, death and destruction is still too near, and Dean’s rarely seen people get a happy ending in this life; he doesn’t want to hurt Cas more than he’s already had. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, when Cas reaches over, and wraps his fingers around Dean’s, he squeezes back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He realizes he hasn’t said anything since Cas’s last statement, long moments ago. “I’m glad you’re part of our family,” he says with all the weight of his heart. There’s that smile again, and Dean knows he’s going to have to say that more often, just for that reaction. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe the unsaid doesn’t need to be said. When Dean goes to his room for the night, Cas sits in the armchair by the bed. His pant leg rides up for a brief moment. The skin is unblemished. No sign of any kind of trauma, not even a bug bite. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll watch over you,” Cas says. Dean doesn’t argue. He’s grateful for the companionship. Grateful to have an angel by his side, always; one that fights to come back to him, and one he’ll fight for in return. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean sleeps peacefully.</span>
</p>
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